Private Party

by Graeme Aitken

  I browsed through some of the Sydney online profiles to get an idea of what other guys said or showed. Some of them were extremely blunt—and extremely arousing—in asserting what they wanted. But it also became obvious to me that you were expected to either show your face or your dick in your photos. Those profiles with no photos had a dismal number of hits. Of course there was no way in the world that I would display my ‘short straw’ on the internet but nor was I prepared to show my face. Twelve months previously, I’d been on nationwide television. I didn’t want people recognising me and taking a prurient delight in the intimate facts I revealed in my profile. There was also the consideration that it might affect my future work opportunities. The ‘Tommy’ people would not be impressed to find the father of Little Amber touting himself for sex on a gay website. Although it rankled that a producer of canned goods should have any influence as to how I lived my life, sadly, at this point in time, they alone seemed to be appreciative of my talents and prepared to pay for them.

  I was still browsing through the profiles when I came across one that showed me how I could promote myself in a discrete manner. Hunter32 wore sexy white underwear, and though his face was averted from the camera, he had such a hot muscular body, he immediately drew my eye. Adjacent to his photos was a caption: face pics available on request. That was the solution. Then I was in control of who saw my face pictures rather than having them available online to all and sundry.

  Unfortunately, all my photo albums were back at Ridge Street, but I was so intent on getting my profile completed, I raced out the door and took a taxi over there. There was one particular photo that immediately sprang to mind. When I found it in the album, my instinct was confirmed: it would be perfect as my main photo. Damon had taken it on Bondi Beach the first summer Blake and I were together. So it wasn’t that recent and it also featured Blake, however, my body was in prime gym condition and I also sported an impressive looking bulge in my Speedos. For some mysterious but fortuitous reason—the angle, the light and shadow—I looked massive down there. I was also wearing sunglasses and a cap so there was no need to blur out my face. The image was perfectly anonymous as it was. The fact that Blake was in the photograph, with his arm draped around my waist, was a minor problem. I would crop him out; which would be very apt, symbolic even of the need to cut him out of my life and move on.

  But as I studied the photograph, it occurred to me that Blake had made no claim whatsoever on our photo albums. Out of all our shared possessions, they would have been one of my first priorities, yet he hadn’t even mentioned them. Did he care so little about our shared history? As I began to leaf through the albums for possible profile photos, I began to feel increasingly saddened. This was the record of our time together and it brought to mind so many memories. After a while, I made myself stop looking at the photos of us pictured together—it just made me feel too melancholy—and concentrate on the shots of me by myself. I selected a couple of solo photos for my profile but even they were still redolent with memories of Blake.

  There was a great rear view shot of myself, walking naked into the waves on the beach at Turtle Cove, Cairns. My face was in profile, affording a partial glimpse without revealing enough to make me recognisable. It had been taken on our first holiday away together. We’d spent that afternoon cuddling and kissing on the beach. Eventually, we got ourselves so worked up, we had to go behind some rocks and have sex. I’d been going into the sea to wash off when Blake called out to me; I turned and he snapped my photo.

  The other photo was from our recent Rome holiday. I sat at the outdoor table of a Trastevere restaurant, nursing an aperitif, while the fading evening light cast a warm glow on the piazza behind me. I was looking sleek and sexy in my new Diesel sunglasses and Dolce & Gabbana tee shirt—and also happy. It seemed impossible that photo had been taken only a few months ago. That time seemed so incredibly distant now.

  I closed the photo album. I couldn’t bear any more reminders. I began to wonder if I should take up Uncle Vic’s recommendation of that photographer, but it would take time to organise and I was impatient to get my profile completed. I also didn’t feel particularly photogenic. I slipped the photos into an envelope, then went through my professional acting photographs. I pulled a black and white shot of me in underwear, my face bowed. From that same stash, I chose a couple of headshots as my ‘on request’ face pics.

  Usually, if I was feeling ‘sensitive’, I came and went by the back lane instead of the front door. But it was the middle of the day during the week, so I knew there would be no chance of running into Blake. I was wrong. I opened my front door and there he was, turning in my gate. We were both so startled, we froze. Blake began to blush and then stammer out an explanation. ‘I’m s-so used t-t-to walking into this house. Sometimes, if I’m not paying attention, I j-just do it automatically, without thinking. I’ve done it before. Sorry.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Did this mistake have some psychological undertone? Did he turn into my house because sub-consciously he wanted to come back? Blake began to retreat, backing away from me. I noticed he wasn’t in his work clothes.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work? Are you sick?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not sick, but I took a sickie. I’m just a bit worn out, you know.’

  That was curious too. It was unlike Blake not to go into work. He had this indomitable work ethic. What had ‘worn him out’? The emotional upheaval of our break-up? Or was it from being constantly prodded by that thing of Rick’s? Blake lingered awkwardly by Rick’s mailbox. We both kept glancing at one other, then looking away. ‘How are you?’ Blake asked suddenly, his voice gentler.

  How was I? It was the question I’d wanted him to ask me for weeks and weeks. I had so many thoughts and feelings to give voice to, things I’d imagined or rehearsed saying to him in my head. I practically had a three act drama devised in there, but somehow, at that moment, I forgot all my lines. I was so thrown by his unexpected presence, let alone his question, and the quiet concern in his voice. I shrugged and shook my head, held up my hands helplessly … but I forgot about the envelope I was holding. The photos fell out and scattered. I was aware of Blake craning over the fence, looking. I dropped to my knees at once and gathered them up again. I was so flustered I didn’t notice one was missing until Blake said ‘here’ and thrust it towards me.

  It must’ve slid under the fence onto Rick’s front path. It was the photo of Blake and me on Bondi Beach.

  I took it and avoided his gaze. I am usually very quick with an excuse or explanation but in this instance, I was at a complete loss as to what to say. It was so awkward. What would he be thinking? That I treasured photos of us and carried them around? For a moment, I wondered about deflecting an explanation by enquiring why he’d never asked for any of our photographs. But then it occurred to me that might only encourage him to ask about the possessions that he had laid claim to, and which I’d given away or intended to keep. ‘I have to get going,’ I muttered and hurried out onto the street.

  I shot a glance back at Blake as I walked off. He was watchful, grave, puzzled.

  That encounter completely threw me, assailing me with a surge of emotions and questions. I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t even notice Nathan walking down the street towards me, until he said hello. ‘We meet again,’ he grinned, and stopped, as though he wanted to talk.

  But I was in no frame of mind for chit-chat. I excused myself, saying I had to be somewhere. If only it was true. I felt at a loss. I had no inclination to keep working on my Gaydar profile. What I really felt like doing was discussing what had just happened with someone, but there wasn’t really anyone I could arrange to see for a coffee and chat. I went back to Kings Cross and rang Ant. I related my encounter with Blake and confided that I felt tempted to arrange a proper meeting with him; one where I was mentally prepared to see and talk to him. Ant didn’t think it was a good idea. ‘Well, maybe I’ll e-mail him then. Tell him how I really am,’ I replied. ‘
I mean, he did ask.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Ant insisted. ‘That was just something to say, to fill an awkward silence. He doesn’t really want to know how you are and you should have more dignity than to tell him.’

  ‘But he turned into my house? It must mean something.’

  Ant sighed. ‘Only to you I’m afraid, because you want it to mean something.’

  After I’d hung up from Ant, I made myself do some work on my Gaydar profile. If I wasn’t busy, I would be tempted to contact Blake and perhaps say something regrettable. I scanned and uploaded the photographs, then set to work on the written sections. But it was so much harder than I imagined. The section Describe Yourself completely defeated me. My personal circumstances had been so lousy lately, I simply wasn’t in a good state of mind for singing my own praises. I felt despondent about myself and my prospects. I didn’t even have the inclination to inflate the truth. I decided to skip ahead to the What I’m Looking For section.

  Scarred by my experience with Piss-Pig, my immediate reaction was to list the types of guys that ‘need not apply’. Top of the list was size queens, closely followed by water sports enthusiasts, and then a pet irritant, other actors. There was simply nothing worse than fellow thespians. Things always got so competitive—over being the centre of attention, over who was more successful, and over who should be doing all the work in bed while the other reclined ‘being the star’. But having started my list of ‘undesirables’, I found it hard to stop. I realised that I needed to add the types of guys I wasn’t physically attracted to—the fat, the elderly, the excessively hairy, the effeminate. By this point, the list was beginning to look rather long, but I imagined this would demonstrate that I was someone with exacting standards. I had heard complaints of discrimination on Gaydar—that some people used this section to exclude guys who were HIV positive or Asian. I had no problems there. I had gone out with Ant who was HIV positive and I felt a real bond with Asian boys. Some of them were maligned quite unfairly about their dick size too.

  I went to bed feeling pleased that I’d made some progress. However, the next day when I took a second look at what I’d written, I began to feel less certain. Stating that I didn’t like size queens did rather advertise the fact that I was a bit lacking in that department. I deleted that information, but still I felt dissatisfied. Then I realised: everything I’d written was negative. I had stated what I didn’t want, rather than what I was seeking, which was entirely the wrong approach. With some reluctance, I deleted everything I’d written. But I went through the Types and Sexual Activities section quite carefully, hoping that my indications there would weed out the undesirable or eternally hopeful. It then took me all morning to compose a new What I’m Looking For paragraph.

  I had another go at describing myself, but gave up after quarter of an hour and turned to the problem of my user name. I still felt very attached to Golden Boy, my affectionate nickname. It fitted, I liked it, but now it would always have the faint scent of urine about it. I needed something new that was catchy, apt and connotation-free. I went through all sorts of possibilities that played on being blond, being cute, being hot in bed, living in Surry Hills, but nothing seemed terribly original or appropriate. Then I remembered my mother’s theatrical user name. It was a clever fit and got me thinking that perhaps a TV allusion would be appropriate for me. I consulted a ‘TV Week’ magazine and played around with various possibilities, until finally, I nailed it. CSI-Sydney, the initials standing for cute, sexy, intriguing.

  I was so pleased with my new name that I felt inspired to tackle writing about myself. The real conundrum was whether to state that I was recently out of a relationship. There was subtext. It implied that I’d been dumped (and possibly for good reason), had ‘issues’, and was potentially feeling rejected and needy. However, it also provided some balance to the fact that I was ‘looking for fun’. I wasn’t a slut, I was just newly single and out to enjoy my new freedom. Finally, I decided to admit to it but to laugh it off. Then to my surprise, I found that having established that tone, writing the rest of the paragraph became a lot easier.

  Once I’d finished, I went to view my profile. I felt rather pleased with it and with myself, until I noticed a glaring error. I had entered my birthday in the required field and thought nothing of it. Little did I realise that the website did the calculations and had posted my age very prominently on my profile. Thirty! I was not thirty—I had lost that birthday somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, a manoeuvre which had required careful planning and considerable expense. I went straight back into maintenance and made the necessary adjustment.

  That done, CSI-Sydney was ready to launch himself online. The only thing that was missing was some enthusiasm. I simply wasn’t feeling cute, sexy and intriguing; rather I felt crushed, sad, and insecure. I certainly didn’t feel horny or flirtatious or even that interested in the sexual proclivities of guys I might know on there. I decided that it would be better to wait until I was in the mood. I went and took an afternoon nap.

  3

  Chapter Three

  csi-sydney

  E-mail address: csi-sydney@hotmail.com

  First name: Stephen

  I am/we are: Single gay man

  Area: NSW—Sydney

  City: Sydney

  Country: Australia

  Interested in meeting: Single man

  For: 1-on-1 sex / group sex

  My birthday: 17 June 1975

  Between ages: 18 to 38

  Profession: TV industry

  Height: 6 ft (183 cm)

  Body type: Muscular

  Ethnic origins: Causcasian

  Hair: Blond

  Eyes: Blue

  General attire: Casual

  Out: Yes

  Dick size: Rather not say

  Cut/ uncut: Rather not say

  Body hair: None / little

  Orientation Gay

  Role: Versatile

  Safer sex: Always

  Smoke: No

  Drink: Socially

  Drugs: Socially

  Username: csi-sydney

  Profile Title: Cute! Sexy! Intriguing!

  Describe yourself:

  I am new to Gaydar, unlike my ex-boyfriend! So yes, that also means that I’m recently single. I’m not wanting to jump back into a relationship, though am not closed off to the possibility if I feel a real connection with someone. But I’m more in the mood for fun, flirtation, dating and sex. I have the quintessential Aussie look: blond, blue-eyed, muscular and smooth-bodied. But I am also smart, cultured, talented, and lively company. I’m very good looking and not usually shy, but I haven’t posted my face pic on here. If you ask and I like you, I will send it to you.

  Describe what you are looking for in others:

  I’m seeking someone that I find sexy, attractive, interesting and good company, someone who I want to spend time with. I don’t have a particular type as such but I do have a weakness for Latin guys. I’m also fond of muscles and a hairy chest.

  FAVOURITE THINGS

  Food: Italian, Thai

  Film: ‘All About Eve’, the collected works of Kristen Bjorn

  Actor: Stephen Spear

  TV Show: ‘Sex and the City’, ‘Oz’, ‘Melrose Place’

  HOLIDAY DESTINATION

  City: Roma

  Country: Italy

  KEYWORDS

  Fetishes: Body hair, muscle

  Types I like: Builders, Farmers, Firemen, Footballers, Labourers, Military (Uniforms), Muscle Men, Rugby Players, Truck Drivers

  Sexual activities: Anal, Kissing, Oral, Sauna/Bath Houses, Threesomes, Vanilla

  Languages: Italian

  Sports and Fitness: Aerobics, Cycling, Gym, Hiking, Jogging, Pilates, Skiing, Swimming, Tennis, Yoga

  Leisure activities: Dining Out, DIY/Home Improvements, Dramatics, Shopping, Strategy Games, Travelling, Videos/DVDs

  The following morning, I awoke with a hard on. Usually, I would just jerk off, and in the process often fin
d myself thinking of fucking Blake to make myself come. I reached for the lube, when suddenly I realised how unhealthy such behaviour was. I shouldn’t be thinking of Blake; I should be fantasising about some hot new guy and moving on. I dragged myself out of bed, went to the computer and logged into Gaydar.

  I selected the option ‘hook-up now’ and began to scroll through the online profiles for Sydney. One of the first profiles on the page was a guy who was an absolute knock-out. Obviously plenty of others thought so too as he had over 100 000 hits. HotBloke10 was happy to flaunt himself: he showed his face (handsome masculine features and a big sexy grin), fantastic body (tall, tanned, muscular), and dick (thick and ‘made for fucking’). He had a boyfriend, MobyDick9, and offered a link to check him out. After viewing Moby, I could see why HotBloke wanted something else on the side. Yes, Moby was well-hung but I suspected he was pushing fifty (although he claimed to be forty-two), with a face that was overly tanned and lined. His bedroom décor was also vile and would have proved a serious distraction to having sex.

  I sent HotBloke a message—HotBloke, I would love to have a hot poke with you—bookmarked him as the first of my favourites and moved on down the list. It didn’t take me long to strike someone I knew and I eagerly opened his profile. Philippe aka Paddington-Bear was a hideous French queen, who Ant had fucked once in a weak moment and that Strauss, perversely, had wanted to. Philippe had always been a bit chubby, but he’d clearly decided to embrace his size and tout himself as a bear. Everything was on display—his grizzled chest, his big bloated belly, his ‘hairy treasure trail’, and a dick which was reputed to be large but was somewhat dwarfed by the immense pubic bush from out of which it poked. It amused me that Philippe listed one of his favourite sexual activities as shaving—he certainly looked in desperate need of someone to take a razor to him. Possibly that was the point of displaying photographs in which his body hair threatened to overwhelm him.